It happens in the grocery store. The park. The restaurant. The waiting room at the doctor’s office.
It happens everywhere — and every time, it looks a little different.
A meltdown in the cereal aisle while strangers stop their carts and stare. A moment at the park where he’s stimming and someone’s child points. A kind-enough stranger who speaks to him directly, and he doesn’t respond — and their expression shifts in a way I’ve learned to recognize from across the room.
I’ve lived all of these scenes. More times than I can count. And for a long time, I thought the hardest part was managing my child in those moments.
It’s not.
The hardest part is watching my child exist in a world that doesn’t always know how to look at them kindly.
The Staring
There’s a particular kind of stare that autism parents know. It’s not always mean. Sometimes it’s just curious. Sometimes it’s uncomfortable, the way people get when they don’t know what to do with something unfamiliar.
But it lands the same way every time.
And what I realized — slowly, over years — is that my heartbreak in those moments wasn’t really about me. It was about my child. The worry that they’d look up and catch it. That they’d clock the expression on a stranger’s face and internalize something about themselves that isn’t true.
That’s the part that undoes me. Not the stare itself. What my child might make of it.
What I Used to Do
In the beginning, I explained. A lot.
I’d catch the look, take a breath, and launch into it: “He has autism, he processes things differently, he’s not trying to be rude, he’s actually really kind once you get to know him…”
I was performing, in a way. Trying to make the stranger comfortable. Trying to reframe the narrative before they could finish writing it in their head.
And somewhere in there, without meaning to, I was also apologizing. For my child’s existence taking up space in an unexpected way. For the inconvenience of visible difference.
I didn’t notice I was doing it for a long time.
What I Do Now
Now I have one line.
“He has autism.” Full stop.
Not: “He has autism, but he’s really sweet.”
Not: “He has autism, so he doesn’t always understand social cues.”
Not an explanation, a defense, or a softener.
Just the fact. Offered plainly. And then I turn back to my child.
Because that’s who I’m here for.
I’m not here to educate strangers in the frozen foods aisle. I’m not here to make anyone comfortable with my child’s neurology. I’m here to keep my child safe, regulated, and surrounded by someone who loves them completely — and that takes my whole attention.
The Shift Nobody Tells You About
There’s a moment that happens for a lot of autism parents — I’ve heard it from so many of you — where something changes.
The staring stops feeling like something you have to fix. And it starts feeling like something you have to protect your child from.
That’s a different posture entirely. You stop being an ambassador for autism in every public moment. You stop translating yourself and your child for every stranger who happens to be in the same space.
And you start standing between your child and a world that doesn’t always get it.
Not with anger. Not with a lecture. Just with your body, your attention, and a very short sentence if one is needed at all.
You don’t owe strangers a lesson. You owe your child your full presence.
That took me longer than I’d like to admit. But I got there.
Have you felt that shift yet — from explaining and apologizing to just… not? If you’re still in the explaining phase, that’s okay too. Tell me where you are. I’d really love to know. 💙
Not their stare. Them. 💙
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